I Need You
by typingfasterthanyou
Summary: After John gets married, Sherlock stops answering his texts. However life with Mary leaves much to be desired. How long will it take before they both realise they need each other, more than they could have ever imagined?
1. Chapter 1

**I hope you all enjoy the product of me being able to think of nothing other than Sherlock in the run up the season 4. This story begins two months after the events of The Sign Of Three and disregards many of the plot points of his Last Vow, but will follow some of the events and ideas. Currently this could serve as just a one shot, but if you guys enjoy it of course I could write more. But I don't know how regular updates would be as I'm very busy with uni and my jobs.**

 **Enjoy!**

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Loud shouts. Gunshots. Flashes of light. It was John's regular nightmare, memories of the war, his heart racing like it had whilst he'd been there. This wasn't regular anymore, though, not since he met Sherlock. In fact, he'd not had this nightmare since the night he'd left his walking stick behind in Angelos. Sherlock would have something to say about that, he was sure.

This nightmare was new, though. Amongst the blood and the gunshots were now microscopes, experiments on the dining table and running in handcuffs. John was being haunted by the life he'd lived with his best friend, that best friend whom he hadn't seen since the day he'd gotten married.

With a loud final gasp John sat up in bed, running his hands through his sweaty hair and trying hard not to neither laugh nor cry. Although the reason for this mess was the lack of Sherlock in his life, John could see him right there. He was perched on the dressing table stool Mary had chosen, his hands clasped under his chin.

"Obviously you miss the danger from your previous life. That's why the nightmares have returned and that's why you're now shaking. Marital bliss."

He was a dick even in John's imagination.

A noise next to him pulled John out of his imaginings. Mary was stretching her whole body out like a cat, a sure sign she was about to wake up. She opened her eyes and perused her husband for a moment. She huffed, likely because she had been woken so early in the morning, "What's the matter?"

John didn't answer her. How could he say that he'd been dreaming about his best friend?

"John?" She finally sat up, putting her hands on his shoulders, "Are you having nightmares again?

He nodded slightly, still staring at the corner of the room he'd imagined Sherlock to be sat.

"Shall we go about getting you seeing your therapist again?" Mary suggested, rubbing his shoulders in a mildly comforting matter. She seemed settled by this idea and leaned back into the pillows, her eyes still open so she could watch him.

John knew seeing his therapist again would do little for his problems, yet again. The only thing that had ever stopped his nightmares was going back out onto the battlefield and that was unlikely, since Sherlock had not been returning his texts.

With what could be perceived as an agreeable humph John pulled himself off of the bed, walking heavily on one leg as he left the room.

"And perhaps you need to use your stick again!" Mary called out lightly, before quickly and easily falling back to sleep.

John frowned at this, although he knew she was at least partially right about that. His leg had been getting gradually worse for weeks, to the point it was ruining his daily life yet again. Amongst the bags under his eyes from the nightmares, the tremors in his hands and his damn leg he wondered if Mary regretted marrying him. This certainly wasn't what she signed up for.

In the dim light of the kitchen John grabbed his phone from where it was charging on the side. He quickly pulled up the notifications; just a spam email and a text from Harry (drunk, again. Gibberish.) With a sign and against his better judgement John clicked on Sherlock's contact, bringing up all recent communication. Or lack thereof.

 _Sherlock where have you gone? Mary and I are leaving soon!_

 _Are you still here?_

 _We've left for our honeymoon. I'll see you in a few days when we're back._

 _I know you always have your phone on you. Why are you ignoring me?_

 _Cornwall is quiet, pleasant. You'd hate it. I kind of do._

 _A case when we're back? Well not we. Just me, and you obviously._

 _I'm home now. If you need any help on a case, you know my number._

 _Well I'm not sure if you do actually know my number since you're doing a very good job of ignoring my texts._

 _I visited Mrs Hudson today. Were you really out or did you somehow deduce I was coming round?_

 _Stop ignoring me, you prat._

John sighed, his fingers tracing over the buttons of his phone. I miss you, he wanted to type. I need you. Sherlock would find that abhorrent, that kind of sentimentalism. He obviously wasn't replying out of his usual childish mentality. He wanted all of John's attention and him going getting married had changed all of that.

Else maybe he just didn't want to go running around with a boring married man, especially now Mary was pregnant and all… in fact it would definitely be a bad idea for him to go chasing after criminals now he was about to be a father. This bothered John much more than he'd ever admit to himself, made it seem as though the baby was some kind of inconvenience. Only, well, Sherlock would think like that about a child.

With a frown John jammed the charger back into his phone, despite it already being on 100%, and threw the goddamn thing back onto the counter with a clatter. Sherlock would text him when he wanted to, he couldn't avoid him forever.

.

Body. Cold. Dead for at least 24, no, 48 hours. Male, blonde, late thirties. Boring. Statistically this was the most likely age and gender for a person to be murdered. Was this a murder though or an even duller accidental death or suicide? Clothes damp, dirty. Did it rain in the past 48 hours locally? No. Water came from somewhere else then. Cleaned? Submerged perhaps. Would need to see forensics to check if the body had spent time in a river or other body of water. What about that blow in the back of the head? Was that the cause of death? Most likely.

Sherlock flicked his sharp gaze upwards, searching for a specific head in the group of people who had stopped to watch him work. The only people he recognised were Lestrade and Sally.

"What is it, freak? Missing your "colleague"?" Sally with a little chuckle to herself. Little did she know she was leaving against a wall just as dirty as the body he was examining. Sherlock gave her a scathing smile.

Lestrade frowned at Sally and shook his head, with a grimace she left the room. He turned to Sherlock who was examining the body again, "Do you know anything?"

Unmarried, but in a relationship. Low income, that much was obvious but he liked to splash out on expensive brands. Worked with his hands, in the city. On second inspection the body had definitely spent time in the river, smelt very strongly of river water and no disinfectant from cleaning.

Sherlock let out a short huff of breath, "Nothing of interest." He removed his gloves with a loud smacking noise and threw them onto the filthy ground.

"Well, who was he? Do you know that?" Lestrade pushed, his eyes wide despite the bags underneath.

Hmm, Lestrade was desperate. Obviously his higher up, perhaps the commissioner, had been on him for the recent backlog of unsolved cases. That, combined with the fact he was fighting with his wife again explained why his clothes were three days old and why he gripped his mobile so tightly in his left hand.

Sherlock turned back to the body.

"He's young, somewhere between 35 and 40. A low-rung, manual worker who aspires to be in management one day but doesn't have the intellect. He has a girlfriend, but they don't live together. He also has an iphone, one of the extortionately large recent models which he usually keeps in his back pocket. The pocket is stretched for the size, but the phone is not there. Likely taken by the murderer." Sherlock spoke quickly and with purpose, gesturing vaguely to the parts of the body which had brought him to these conclusions.

"Murderer?" Lestrade sounded tired. Obviously wanted a quick and easy answer.

"Yes, the tightness of these jeans coupled with the size of the phone means it would be unlikely that the phone came out in the water. A man this early on in a relationship, with a phone of this expense would be unlikely to leave it at home or anywhere else."

"So he's been in the river then?" The detective walked over to the window, where the Thames was visible amongst the urban scenery.

"Obviously," Sherlock said shortly. He was staring at the head of the victim which was face down on the floorboards. "I cannot quite deduce whether or not his death came from the blow to the back of the head or drowning."

Lestrade let out a burst of ill-timed laughter. The other police officers gave him a strange look as Sherlock scowled. He was incredulous; "You don't know? I'm sorry, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know something for once?"

For a moment Sherlock stayed quiet, standing slowly from his crouched position by the body. His face was unreadable, as usual, "Why do you think I've been avoiding your calls, Lestrade? I don't have a medical degree; I can't deduce correctly unless I know the correct medical facts."

"Anderson-"

"Anderson is an idiot. I can't work with him; no matter how much his opinion of me has changed, mine has not" Sherlock interrupted, taking out his phone and typing furiously into it.

Lestrade chose his words carefully, a smile pulling at his lips for the opportunity, "Looks like you need a doctor."

Carefully not showing the other man his face Sherlock swept from the room, the other officers parting quickly to allow him to pass. He pretended he didn't hear Lestrade's sarcastic call of goodbye, then, as he stepped out onto the street. The rubbish and grime ridden streets outside of the squatters' nest not assaulting his senses as much as it had the first time around. He had written out another text to John, as he had done so many times already.

 _Case. Aylesbury estate. Could be dangerous. –SH_

He hesitated for a second, tracing the send button with a delicate finger. He noticed the time, 4am, would he be awake? Perhaps this was too late to text him, most ordinary, married men would asleep at this time of night. Was this inappropriate?

He typed again.

.

John was just about to set about pulling his bad leg up the stairs back to bed, when the chiming of his phone stopped him. He begged himself not to turn around, promised himself it would just be Harry again. But he couldn't help himself. John gave in and limped into the kitchen, grabbing the phone again with a shaking hand.

It flashed with the contact he'd not heard from in nearly two months.

Without taking a second to think he unlocked the phone, typing in the password with suddenly nimble fingers.

 _Case. Aylesbury estate. Could be dangerous. I need you. –SH_

John's mouth went entirely dry. The start of the text was exactly what he was anticipating, short, to the point, using a formula Sherlock already knew would draw him out. But that ending. _I need you._ What was that supposed to mean? Sherlock Holmes needed no one, that much was already proven obvious.

He checked the time and instantly was furious. It was 4am! Who did he think he was, texting him at four o'clock in the morning? He was married, he had a job. Why would he be awake, waiting to receive his text? Sure, this was a man who called him across London to send a text and sure, he was awake waiting to receive this one. But that was beside the point. Could he be a little more considerate? Two months of nothing, and now this?

Before he even knew what he was doing, John was back in the bedroom, grabbing jeans and a jumper from the back of a chair. He did this quickly and with disregard to his surroundings, so when Mary spoke it made him almost jump out of his skin.

"What are you doing?" Mary was sat up in bed again, an incredulous look on her face. She clicked on the bedside lamp and blinked, "Why are you getting dressed?"

John barely looked at her as he struggled with his jeans. Post-marital weight, Sherlock would say.

"A text," He grunted, forcing the button, "A case. Got to go."

Something like jealousy flashed in Mary's eyes. She slumped against the headboard and smiled, "Sherlock finally texted you, then."

"Yeah," John unlocked the bottom drawer of a cabinet in the far corner of the room, withdrawing his gun and locking it again. He still didn't look at his wife, subconsciously avoiding showing her how the light had come back into his eyes at the prospect of case. As an afterthought before he left the room, John smoothed a drop of product through his bedhead.

Mary watched him with her eyes half closed, not making any moves to get up or stop him. She spoke; "When are you coming home?"

John paused at the door, "I don't know."

With a frown Mary said, "Why do I feel like I'm losing you to Sherlock?"

Her husband had nothing to say to that. So he just left, grabbing a coat off of the hook on his way out. What he wanted to say was, _he was my best friend first. You can't lose me to someone who already had me in the first place._ But he didn't, that sounded much too pathetic. Almost as pathetic as him hailing a cab at 4 o'clock in the morning for a man who hasn't even bothered to answer his texts for two months.

In fact, he was of a mind to turn the cab around the entire drive to the other side of London, why should he come running just because Sherlock had asked? He hadn't even replied to Sherlock's text, giving himself an out in case he decided to not go. Which he shouldn't be, really. He should be the grown up husband, and expectant father, Mary deserved him to be present, not running around London at the tip of a hat.

It was just going to be this one time, John promised himself, as he threw twenty pounds at the driver and hauled himself out onto the litter covered road. This area was truly disgusting, the buildings were all derelict and falling apart, the entire estate a ghost town. He just needed one last taste of adventure, he reminded himself, as he pushed the police tape out of his way and almost skipped up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs was Donovan, tidying away some files into her bag as a couple pc's placed fresh caution tape over the crime scene. She looked up and a sly grin came over her face, "Come for Sherlock, have you?"

"Yeah, where is he?" John asked hurriedly, ignoring the warning signs blaring in the back of his mind.

Sally's smile widened, as though she was the cat that got the cream. "He's gone, again. Run off somewhere."

"But he, he…" John began to argue, but suddenly stopped, a look of resignation across his face. He let out a great sigh, "Of course." He walked quickly down the stairs and out of the house, an embarrassed flush coming over his neck and cheeks. How could he have been so stupid?

Sally followed closely in his footsteps, she called out, "You remember I told you."

"I know, I know. He doesn't have friends," John parroted, his expression glum as he attempted to hail another cab on the deserted road.

"You're really better off staying away from him," Sally repeated again, an unusual note of sincerity in her tone.

John turned around, actually taking notice of Sally Donovan for the first time in the time they'd known each other. She seemed lonely, the woman who'd help her colleague cheat on his wife and still be the last one left at the crime scene. Lestrade was gone, Anderson was gone. John was sure a detective sergeant wouldn't need to be tidying up the paperwork when there were plenty of PC's on hand to help.

"Did he reject you?" John asked simply.

Sally scoffed loudly, looking incredulous, "No."

So much for John's deducing skills, he thought he'd improved. Still, he pushed on, "Why do you hate him so much?"

There was a moment of silence. Sally sighed, "This is what he does. He breezes in when everyone's struggling, shows off his ridiculous skills, embarrasses us all and leaves with all the glory. You should hear Lestrade go on about him, whatever I do it's never good enough next to the Great Sherlock Holmes." She seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, "And yet, we'd be lost without him."

John nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer for some reason.

"Where are you going now? Baker Street?" Donovan asked knowingly, she smiled slightly, "Come on, I'll give you a lift."

The ride in the police car was unbearably awkward. The strange moment John and Sally had shared on the street was long over, and they went back to having little to nothing to say to one another. There was also the fact that John was absolutely seething, he'd given in and come running across London for Sherlock and he'd not even bothered to wait for him to get there. Why had he even texted him? Why did he bother at all?

For something to do John flicked through the case file, stopping for a moment on the photo of the victim before skim reading the rest. Wasn't quite Sherlock territory but interesting enough, a 6 at best.

John clenched his fists as the black door of 221 Baker Street came into view on the road ahead and Sally pulled up the car. With a nod of the head and thanks John exited, marching right up to the door and unlocking it without even a knock. He walked straight past Mrs Hudson, who exclaimed upon seeing him, and climbed the flight of stairs with ease. The door to 221b was closed and yet he pushed it open with a slam as it hit the opposite wall.

"You unbearable cock." John growled.

Sherlock was lying full out on the leather sofa, his eyes closed and hands steeped against his lips. His jacket was strewn over the desk but other than that he was still fully dressed, his expensive leather shoes tracking mud onto the arm of the sofa.

The flat was a mess; the dirt on the sofa was barely the half of it. Books, newspapers, files covered every surface; toppling onto the floor which was filthy with dust and rubbish. Unwashed dishes sat in corners and the odd packet of cigarettes topped off the various piles, giving a pretty picture of what Sherlock's life had been like for the past two months.

John almost felt vindicated. At least Sherlock had been living worse than he had.

"Hello John," Sherlock greeted in a low rumbling voice. He still hadn't opened his eyes.

This infuriated John more; no apology? Of course not. This was Sherlock Holmes he was talking to. John looked around for his armchair to throw himself down onto but realised it wasn't there. Somehow he'd missed noticing that amongst the dirt and rubbish.

"Where's my chair?" John barked, clenching and unclenching his fists in his fury.

Sherlock smiled, "Well you didn't need it anymore. I don't know, I think Mrs Hudson may have taken it."

John made an angry noise. He sat down heavily on Sherlock's armchair but the leather was hard, unforgiving. He struggled to get comfortable for a moment before deciding to focus on why he'd come.

"What happened with the case?" He asked harshly.

"I haven't figured it out yet, I'm thinking."

"Why did you text me?"

"I needed you to determine the cause of death."

"Why did you leave?"

"You didn't reply."

"Why now?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

John practically vibrated with anger, "For god's sake Sherlock!" This finally shook Sherlock's eyes open, he stared with an intensity that almost put John off of his ranting, "Why do you do this? You left my wedding early, you ignore my texts, you avoid me whenever I come visit and now suddenly, out of the blue, you text me saying you need me! For, for god's sake…"

Quick as a flash Sherlock was sitting bolt upright, his usual petulant look on his face. "Well John, since you've got it all figured out, why don't you deduce why I texted you tonight?"

John tried to stare back into Sherlock's eyes but his intensity was like looking into the sun, so John stood, pacing around the room like Sherlock on a bad day.

"Well, you've not been out much-"

"Good, why?"

"Because there are takeaway cartons on the floor and dirty washing in the corner. You never go out to pick up takeaways and you get your laundry dry cleaned, which requires leaving the flat. What you're wearing now is clean, but it's your least favourite shirt and that suit is old – it doesn't fit you properly."

John looked up to Sherlock's face again, he nodded, almost looking impressed.

"You've been keeping Mrs Hudson out of here, that's for sure. She would never let the flat get this filthy and she would buy you groceries," John stalked over to the fridge and opened it, instantly being assaulted by the smell of rotting food, "Yes and she would have cleaned that lot out a long time ago."

"Good, John. But you've not answered my question, why did I text you tonight?" Sherlock repeated, a dangerous note in his voice.

"Well you haven't been going to cases, that much is obvious from the gunshots in that wall and the lack of new case files amongst this rubbish. Plus, Mrs Hudson told me you hadn't been out much the last time I was here."

"But why did I text you tonight?"

"You took a case tonight so something must have been interesting about this one. I flicked through the case file on the way here, nothing extraordinary. Except at a stretch the victim, well," John seemed to struggle with himself for a second, "Well, he could have been mistaken for me under the right circumstances."

There was a moment as the two looked at each other, really looked at each other, for the first time in two months. Sherlock looked as though he was going to say something.

"John! Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson clattered through the door, looking both overjoyed and irritated that she had been swept aside for this reunion. She had a plate of biscuits and a pot of tea which explained her delay in coming up here.

"Look at you!" She said happily, looking for somewhere to put down the plate. Her voice turned sour, "And look at this place! What have you been doing up here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged as he sat back down on the sofa, a sullen look settling back over his face. John helped her move the newspapers off of the coffee table and put down the tea.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John said pointedly, shooting a look at his former flatmate.

Mrs Hudson smiled and spoke in a hushed tone, "You know he's locked me out of here, wouldn't let me clean or anything!"

"That I can believe," John said with a chuckle, forgetting his anger for a moment as he strangely felt normal for the first time in years.

"Sherlock, you better eat some of these biscuits," Mrs Hudson scolded, turning to John again, "Don't let these dirty plates fool you, he's barely eaten a thing in weeks."

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded a lot like "unimportant" and turned over on the sofa, staring at the wall.

She sighed, "Well, I'll leave you two be, it seemed like you were in the middle of something important."

With that the older woman bustled out of the room, with one last sorry glance at the state of the flat. Sherlock didn't turn back around, so John stared at the back of his head as he enjoyed his tea and two digestive biscuits. When he finished, however, he spoke.

"Well?" John asked forcefully, "Were you going to say something?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. The slowly, purposefully, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "I didn't think the victim was you. There's not way you would be stupid enough to get yourself murdered. However, the description did sound like you, I imagine Lestrade played on that to get me to go. It was the first case I'd done without you since we met and I'd gotten so used to your medical knowledge I'd deleted most of mine. Plus, Anderson was on Forensics and I can't work with him."

"Obvious," John mocked. And despite himself, he began to laugh. And Sherlock did the same. Everything still wasn't quite right, but it was getting there.

.

 **Please let me know what you thought of this, I hope you liked reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.**


	2. Chapter 2

I'm back! Spending my hung-over day-after-boxing-day morning polishing this off as a thank you for everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter! It means a lot to me and I hope you enjoy this one just as much.

 **.**

John woke up from a dreamless sleep for the first time in months. His back was aching, his legs and arms were curled up awkwardly to his chest and there was a strange absence of Mary's memory foam mattress supporting him. In fact, he wasn't sure he was even on a bed at all, the surface was very smooth and cold and shaped much more like a chair…

With a fluttering of heavy eyelids John looked around at his surroundings, he was back in 221B and it was broad daylight. Behind him Mrs Hudson was dusting the now empty mantelpiece and Sherlock was using his microscope in the slightly less disgusting kitchen. Oh, yes. How could he have forgotten his late night trip into London?

He groaned loudly and suddenly, attempting to stretch the kinks out of his back. "Why on earth did you let me sleep here last night?" he asked generally, rubbing his shoulder.

"It was late; it was obvious you hadn't been sleeping properly at your house. You fell asleep and I had no reason to wake you," Sherlock explained, not looking up from whatever he was experimenting on.

Mrs Hudson leaned over to dust the coffee table, "I told Sherlock you'd be better off sleeping in his bed, but he was having none of it."

John attempted a smile and failed miserably. Ah yes, the digs at his sexuality were something he'd missed about this place. Surely him marrying a woman and having Sherlock as his best man would finally put all of those rumours to rest!

His thought about the wedding suddenly reminded John that he did, in fact, have a wife. A wife who was most likely worrying he'd been kidnapped by some kind of super-villain after he ran off in the middle of the night. Maybe he should call her and let her know he was okay?

John patted down all of his pockets and came to the alarming conclusion that his phone was not there.

"Have any of you seen my phone?" John exclaimed, standing up to look around in worry.

Sherlock finally looked up, "Oh. Yes. I used it to send a text."

"Used it to send a text to who?" He replied instantly, before catching himself, "Wait, why couldn't you just use your own phone?"

Sherlock didn't respond. Mrs Hudson tutted, "He's avoiding calls from that police man."

"Lestrade? Why?" John questioned.

With quick, precise movements Sherlock got up and walked over to John; he dropped his phone onto the coffee table.

"Call your wife, she's probably worried," He ordered in his regular unaffected tone. However, John thought he could see underneath that and Sherlock seemed cold and annoyed. Did he think John was about to leave again?

John nodded slowly, scrolling through his phone hesitantly before clicking call on Mary's icon. The phone rang a few times and John thought she wasn't even going to pick up, but finally the call went through.

" _Hello? John?"_ Mary's voice sounded distant and there was a lot of background chatter.

"Mary, where are you?" John asked quickly, it didn't sound like Mary was at home.

The background noise suddenly stopped and Mary sounded normal again, _"Surely I should be the one asking you that. How was the case?"_

"We're still on it, I think," He replied, despite having had nothing to do with the actual case yet, "I kipped at 221B last night, hope you don't mind."

" _Last night and much of today it seems, don't worry I guessed as much."_

John moved his phone away from his ear to check the time, 2pm! He hadn't slept in that late in years; surprising he'd done so on the unforgiving armchair.

"What are you doing today?" John inquired; it was Mary's day off and he… he should really have been at work hours ago. A jolt of guilt flooded through him, he needed this job if he was going to provide for the baby on the way.

" _Well after I rang in sick for you when you didn't come home this morning I went out; meeting some friends,"_ Mary responded matter-of-factly, a note of teasing in her voice.

John nodded, satisfied. Then realised Mary couldn't see him, "Er, thanks that's great. I'll see you later, then?"

" _When the case is over, I guess? See you later."_

The call cut off rather abruptly. John couldn't tell if his wife was annoyed or just busy, but she'd been pushing him to reconcile with Sherlock for weeks. Why would she be annoyed? It was probably just his mind playing tricks on him.

"I've made you some breakfast, dear," Mrs Hudson said, as she placed toast with jam and a pot of tea onto the coffee table. With a smile she made for the door to the flat, letting the boys know she was giving them some 'alone time'. John tried not to think about the implications of that.

John took a sip of tea and his eyes wandered to Sherlock, who was tapping furiously on his laptop, "We getting on with this case, then?"

"Do you want to?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

"I'm here aren't I?" John retorted, a little annoyed he was the one getting flack when surely Sherlock was in the wrong.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Don't you have a job and a wife to be getting to?"

"Mary's given me the day off, it seems," John responded, instantly resenting the idea that he needed his wife's permission to help out on a case.

Of course, Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. He took a wallet out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the table in front of them, examining its contents intently, laying out each item carefully. John was sure this was for his benefit, although he had no idea why.

"Who's is this? It's not yours," He asked, walking over to Sherlock and peering over his shoulder.

Sherlock picked up the bank card, pasting a snarky smile onto his lips, "Well observed, John, my name isn't Christopher Paley."

"And your wallet's designer, this is knock off at best," John retorted petulantly, stung that Sherlock was being so off with him.

Sherlock seemed pleased, "Good, this is a fake but a pretty good one; our man likes the very best but he can't afford it," Sherlock explained, pulling at the lining of the wallet with bony fingers.

"Who is our man?" John asked. He suddenly remembered the missed calls from Lestrade that Sherlock had distracted him from with the call to Mary, he frowned, "It's the murdered guy from last night's, isn't it? Why do you have it?"

Sherlock smiled insincerely, "I found it."

"And where did you find it, Sherlock?" He asked tiredly, picking through the various cards and notes on the table.

"It may have found its way from the police evidence table into my pocket," Sherlock responded nonchalantly.

John sighed and held back a laugh that was bubbling in his chest. He might be unbelievably pissed at his best friend right now, but how he had missed this. They were falling back into their regular routine very easily and John tried not to think about what would happen when the case was over and he had to go back to Mary. He had a disturbingly immature thought about dragging this case out as long as possible, only to savour this time.

As discreetly as he could manage, Sherlock attempted to deduce John's thoughts, whilst still appearing to examine the extraordinarily dull contents of Christopher's wallet. He may be a little slow on the uptake of convention sometimes, but even he knew John shouldn't be so willing to help him again. He had ignored him, he left his wedding early; he'd done everything he could to push John away. Because that's what he thought he should do. Mycroft had told him that it was the end of an era, so why did everything suddenly feel like it had before?

"So I'm guessing Lestrade has figured out you have this?" John asked, picking up Sherlock's phone and flicking through the umpteen missed calls and texts. The police officer was certainly mad.

Sherlock bared his teeth in an almost smile, "Oh yes. He thought it would be funny to tease me about something yesterday, so I thought it would be funny to solve his case without him."

John struggled not to laugh at this, "What did he tease you about that it bothered you that much?"

"Do I ever need too much incitation to solve a case?" Sherlock brushed him off, quickly gathering the cards and placing them carefully back into the wallet. He made for the door, "Come on. We're going to go visit his flat, where I hope we'll see his girlfriend."

John frowned for a moment at Sherlock's obvious distraction tactic, before being distracted by his own creased clothing, "We need to stop at mine and Mary's first, I need to change."

"No time, there are some of your things still left upstairs," Sherlock responded, his brain instantly telling him he'd responded too quickly. He needed to find an excuse for this, that didn't include him missing John so much he'd gone through his old bedroom one night after he'd got bored of shooting the wall, "Mrs Hudson thought about getting another tenant after you left and she cleaned the place up, but she never got round to it."

Again John was confused at Sherlock's strange behaviour and blinked a few times, "Oh, okay then."

What he didn't say, when he returned in an older jumper and jeans, was that it was obvious Mrs Hudson was not the one who'd tidied his room. His shirts were laid out in chronological order from the ones he used to wear the most to the least. Why on earth had Sherlock been going through his things?

.

The block of flats Christopher lived in was small. In a relatively far-out borough of London, with good travel links into the centre. Three miles from where his body was found. A suitable place to bring up a family. Children could be heard in the flat below and next door but one. Christopher lived on the third floor. When his girlfriend opened the door, pregnant (2 months, doesn't know), she'd been crying.

Sherlock put on his best caring persona, bowing his head slightly and turning down the corners of his mouth. He spoke quietly, "I am very sorry for your loss."

The girl's eyes widened, fresh tears sprung in the corners. She obviously didn't know that either. Her voice broke, "My loss?" Her tearful gaze danced between both John and Sherlock, fingering a necklace. Sentiment. A gift from the victim.

Sherlock turned to John, who was staring at him as if to say _'the police haven't been round and told her yet?'._ He seemed angry about this for some reason. They were here first; this mean they were going to get the best information. Was that not good?

He pulled out a warrant card from his inside pocket, "DI Lestrade, this is DS Watson; could we come in?"

Wordlessly she moved out of the way, stifling a sob when she thought they weren't paying attention. The flat was warm. A landline sat next to a laptop, the victims Facebook page open and logged in. The girlfriend was worried about where Christopher was. Her name on Facebook was Emily Marsh. It was unusual for him to be out so late. A mug of tea, undrunk on the counter. Two places set out for a meal on the table. Neither plate had been used. Was this in the hope Christopher would come home? No. They were supposed to be having a romantic night in the night previous. He had never shown, obviously. In fact, the girl does know she's pregnant. She was going to tell him last night.

The girlfriend (Emily?) entered the room shakily, sitting down in the armchair and gesturing to the sofa for her guests. She looked down, "What did you mean, you're sorry for my loss"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder, he stared at it.

"I'm sorry to tell you, Christopher was found dead last night in a residence on the Aylesbury estate," John said, in the perfect mix of firm but comforting. Doctors words, Sherlock knew.

She seemed to choke without making a sound. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks now and she rocked slightly in her chair.

"If there's anything you could tell us about what could have happened, it would be of great help to the investigation," John continued, somehow smiling without moving his lips at all.

Sherlock stopped being so in awe of John's bedside manner and decided he needed answers more specific than that.

"Why was your boyfriend out of the house last night?" He demanded, as softly as he could manage.

"He went to work and never came back," She responded quietly, staring at a spot somewhere above their heads.

"Does he do that often?" Sherlock continued, his bedside manner much harsher than John's.

"Never."

"Would he cheat on you?"

"No!" The girl cried out, openly sobbing, "He wouldn't do that. He would never, never…"

"Sherlock!" John scolded, walking over to her and putting a reassuring hand over hers. He realised quickly that he'd used the wrong name, that he should have called him 'Greg', but the girl didn't seem to notice.

Sherlock was far from done though. Quick as a flash he had the laptop in his hands, flicking through Christopher's Facebook, "Why were you checking his Facebook messages? His account's logged in but this laptop is yours."

"He hasn't messaged anyone, there's nothing on there," Emily reassured herself, gripping John's hand now with an iron clad grip.

"But you're suspicious?" Sherlock continued to probe, "Has your boyfriend been up to anything that warrants you hacking into his account?"

She sniffed, "I didn't hack it. His passwords are all really easy. We were always so close, we told each other everything. That's why it was so weird when he started to hide his phone from me, taking phone calls out of the bedroom in the middle of the night. That sort of thing."

A light seemed to go on behind Sherlock's penetrating eyes, he whispered to John, "The phone was missing from the body."

"He seemed to have more money, too, he got this new phone…"

A knock at the door stopped her in her tracks. Her temporarily clear eyes turned cloudy again, she turned her head to look at the door. Her voice was confused, "Who could that be?"

Sherlock sank back into the soft sofa, 'humph'ing in annoyance that he was missing out on his breakthrough, as she walked into the hallway and out of sight. Ideas were still ticking through his mind though, and he continued to scan the apartment.

"Hello?" The girl's teary voice was just audible from the hallway, "Who are you?

A male voice answered, but it wasn't distinguishable. John craned his neck to try and get a look at the man. Sherlock didn't.

"W-what? I'm sorry but I already have a DI Lestrade inside…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if he was expecting this was going to happen. He took hold of John's elbow and pulled him towards the door, turning up his coat collar as he went. In the hallway Lestrade was flanked by Donovan and another, younger, police officer in uniform.

Lestrade let a moment of anger slip through his sympathetic expression, "Wallet, now." He ordered, a no-nonsense tone in voice.

With a smirk Sherlock handed it over and stepped out of the flat. John avoided looking at Donovan, but smiled at Lestrade.

"Good to see you, Dr Watson," Lestrade greeted, with a note that John couldn't quite understand. He grinned, "Hope you and Mary are doing well."

"We are… Thanks," John responded, following Sherlock out of the door feeling a little like he was on the outside of some joke.

On the street Sherlock was actually waiting for him, typing furiously once again in his phone. Somehow amongst the upset ramblings about cheating and such Emily had given him some clue to Christopher's fate, it seemed. When John approached Sherlock glanced up, giving him a look he'd not seen in some time.

John sighed, pretending to be annoyed, "I've not missed that look."

Sherlock's 'look' then changed to a frown. He didn't understand what was the matter.

"No, we don't both know what's going on here," John supplied with a shake of his head, chuckling a little. Typical.

"We don't?"

"No. What has she told you then?"

Sherlock shook his phone, "That she's expecting us for dinner in half an hour."

"What?" John stared at him dumbly, "That grieving girl just invited us for dinner?"

"No John, your wife. Mary. Remember her?" Sherlock seemed to be enjoying this far too much. It was almost like "lad" style banter, but Sherlock Holmes would never even consider doing anything so uncouth, surely? He span his mobile phone in fingers nimbly, seemingly staring John out.

John continued to blatantly gaze at Sherlock. He was texting Mary? His wife, Mary? Sherlock never stopped in the middle of a case for anything, and now he was taking invites from his wife for social occasions? John wanted to laugh, imagining the ethereal Sherlock Holmes sat in the Watsons domestic kitchen, eating Mary's homemade roast.

"What, Mary's invited us for dinner?" John said, feeling his voice's tone shift unnaturally for some reason.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, "No, she's invited me. I shouldn't think a husband would need to be invited to dinner in his own house."

"Oh, right, yeah," John agreed slowly, checking his own notifications on his phone. Nothing from Mary; just a text from Mrs Hudson asking if he wanted his chair bringing upstairs. He instantly fired off a yes reply. At least he'd have somewhere familiar to sit when he visited. John looked up, "What about the case?"

Sherlock seemed to remember himself, "Ah yes. Well he won't be killing anyone else anytime soon. Not an immediate concern"

"He?" He inquired.

"Obvious."

With a shake of his head John followed Sherlock, as he hailed the nearest cab and sat in the back. As the cab sped through the city into the reasonably high class neighbourhood Mary and John lived, John pretended to take great interest in the cabbie's story about a German couple who'd been in the cab before them; all the while trying to catch glimpses of his best friend.

Usually, when invited to a dinner party, Sherlock would have to be dragged there, pouting and moaning about how his time could be spent in any other way. So why was he talking about picking up a bottle of wine on the way, and speculating about Mary's prowess as a cook? Was this an attempt to get back in the couple's good books after leaving the wedding early? Or some elaborate experiment about married couples for his website perhaps?

Another thought came to John, as he came to a part of the city he recognised as being near their neighbourhood; he was nervous. Why? He was going to dinner, at his own house, with his own wife and best friend. This should just be a normal occurrence in life. But this was the most alien experience he'd had that day. And he'd been at crime scenes and interrogating grieving, pregnant girls all in the space of 24 hours. That should be troubling, right?

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 **What will happen when Sherlock goes for dinner? Should be interesting… Let me know your thoughts in a review please, always makes me write that bit faster.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Here's my first update of 2017! Just a warning, this chapter does look like a lot of plot points are resolved and the story is ending, but I have this story plotted out and we're not near the end yet. Keep with me haha**

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The door swung open before the taxi had properly pulled up outside of John and Mary's house. It was large, suburban; boring. Mary stood in the doorway, too far away for Sherlock to make out her expression, but he did note she was fairly dressed up for the occasion. Strange, as it had only been planned half an hour previous. He tried not to make any deductions, although her jewellery and styling of her hair did fit in with a fledgling theory he'd been working on since the wedding.

No, this was John's night. John's night, with Mary, to show how they would all work as a unit. To show how Sherlock would fit in his new life. The new era.

He glanced over to John, who seemingly was content with staying in the taxi despite having paid and pulled up outside his own home. With a nod of his head Sherlock insinuated they should really be going, and climbed gracefully out of the car, tugging on his coat collar as the cold air hit him.

"Hi boys!" Mary called out, as they got close enough to hear her. She hugged Sherlock and kissed his cheek, in an uncomfortable moment where she attempted forge familiarly they simply didn't have. Sherlock closed up instantly; this was new. Then, Mary kissed John square on the lips.

Sherlock walked into the house first, startled by Mary's out-of-character display of affection. She knows from John he wasn't "touchy-feely" and the couple rarely, if ever, showed PDA in front of him. He felt suddenly more on edge than he had been anyway, the forced social situation becoming more foreign the further into it they went. He'd only agreed because he knew both of these people well and thought it would make John happy. Now he wasn't sure of Mary's intentions with her invitation.

He scanned the large, boring living room quickly. Bright, warm, décor inspired obviously by Mary. Photos of the wedding were propped behind ornaments on the mantelpiece; not yet in frames. Sherlock had not yet seen these photos; he picked up one that was lying face down on the coffee table. The photo was of Mary, John and him standing next to but slightly away from the couple. He looked uncomfortable, as he always did in photos; Mary was staring straight at the camera; John was looking at the floor.

The whispered conversation in the corridor Sherlock had been failing to decode suddenly ended, and the married couple walked in, "Drink?" Mary offered, skirting past Sherlock and entering the kitchen.

"Scotch," Sherlock decided, "Please."

"Please? You are trying to be polite," John commented, settling onto the sofa. He seemed just as on edge as Sherlock felt, but was being much more obvious in his mannerisms. Something Mary had said had shaken him and Sherlock was sure it wasn't where she'd been all day. Mary wasn't going to let her husband in on that just yet.

Sherlock tried a smile, "Well I am your guest."

Mary entered the room at that moment, placing Sherlock's scotch onto the coffee table and a beer from John next to it. She smiled at both men and left the room again.

John chose this moment to reply, "That's weird, isn't it?" He laughed to himself, "You being my guest, when you've always been well, you know."

"Your flatmate," Sherlock supplied easily, taking a sip of his scotch as he perused John.

Sherlock watched as John subconsciously swallowed and licked his lips, before nodding at what Sherlock had said. Nervous. He's nervous, anxious about something. John reached out and took the beer bottle into his hand, taking a long drink from it. Before he'd finished, his eyes were on Sherlock's scotch. Beer not satisfying, craving the instant gratification of hard liquor.

"Yeah," John agreed. He opened his mouth to say something else, but quickly closed it as Mary entered. She had a mug in one hand and another glass of scotch in the other. She placed the scotch next to John's now-drained beer bottle, before sitting in the armchair facing the two men. John's eyes flicked from the glass back to his wife, "Trying to get me drunk?"

Mary stared at him for a long moment, her eyes hard, "You seemed like you needed a drink."

With furrowed brows Sherlock watched this loaded exchange, the jarring clashes between husband and wife lighting up like alarm bells in his mind. Last time he'd seen this couple they were getting married, they were having a baby together; domestic bliss as Mycroft would call it. In his absence from their lives Sherlock had painted a clear picture in his mind of the happy life they were living without him, dreamt of it even. When the drugs pushed him too far and he finally lost control of his own mind.

But they were very obviously not happy. He could have deduced this without speaking to them; the pictures not in frames showed how this marriage didn't feel permanent, not worth putting in a frame. Mary's books, ornaments sat on display on all of the shelves however John's sat in a cupboard, obscured from view. Although John had obviously lived here first, this was Mary's house. The only evidence he lived there at all were the sticky rings were John's alcoholic drinks had been, Mary always used coasters and she wasn't drinking now because of the baby.

"Had a nice day out, Mary?" Sherlock wasn't sure why he was asking her. He told himself to stop, to not treat his friends' failing marriage as a case for him to solve. But he couldn't help himself.

Mary wasn't sure why Sherlock was asking her either. She looked shocked and suspicious that Sherlock Holmes would ever go in for small talk, "It was okay… thanks, Sherlock."

"Good," He almost whispered, trying to not feel elated at what his senses were so obviously telling him.

John was staring at the empty whisky glass in his hand, either not listening to what the pair were saying or resigned to it. Sherlock didn't even pause before deducing this time; John knew that Mary was cheating.

This was why John had come to meet him the night previous, why he'd stayed at 221B despite claiming he had to go home. Perhaps he hadn't known it, hadn't wanted to see what was right there under his nose; but as soon Sherlock had arrived here he'd confirmed John's fears.

The signs were obvious. Around the wedding Sherlock had noticed that despite her having no family to speak of, Mary did have a reasonable sized group of fourty-something men all ex's, all "still friends". Of course that wasn't a sure sign that she was cheating, but Mary had been "out with friends" all day, allowing her husband to run around with him all day solving crimes. And her clothing was not reminiscent of what you'd wear to meet a platonic friend; her neck and chest were exposed in a low cut top and her makeup was much heavier than he'd ever seen her wear day-to-day.

How much John knew of what she was up to, whatever it was exactly she was up to, Sherlock couldn't be sure. If he was more than a little suspicious, he surely would have said something to him, knowing Sherlock would be able to deduce a cheater almost immediately. But no, Mary had invited them here. This meant either the cheating was new, or she severely underestimated Sherlock's power of deduction. The only other option would be her wanting Sherlock to figure this out; guilt? Was she looking for a way out of this marriage?

Mary was the one to finally cut the silence, "I was thinking of making a casserole, what do you two think?"

"I'm suddenly not hungry," Sherlock responded quickly, standing and making towards the door. As an afterthought he turned, glancing at the other male, "John?"

John looked up quickly, his empty glass finally clattering onto the coffee table.

Before he could reply, Mary jumped in. "He lives here, Sherlock, not with you anymore, remember?" Her tone was light, teasing. It could almost be construe for "banter" between friends, if not for the heavy hand she had placed on John's knee.

"We have a case," Sherlock responded matter-of-factly. He smirked smugly when John nodded.

"And John had work in the morning, I can't call in sick for him everyday."

The implication was clear. This day with John was a one-time thing that wouldn't be happening again. Mary had allowed this to happen today and she was letting Sherlock know that she was the one in control.

Sherlock sighed impatiently, "Fine."

Without another word he swept from the room, subconsciously turning up his coat collar as he passed John to hide his face. Before he could hail a cab, however, a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

It was Mary. She smiled, "I'll give you a lift home, shall I?"

Sherlock had the sinking feeling that he was walking into a trap. This all felt off, something was wrong, was it just the cheating? Of course it was, but why was he feeling so conflicted?

"It's fine, I'll get a cab," Sherlock informed her. He scanned the quiet, boring road for a taxi but there was not a car in sight.

"Don't be silly," There was a note of warning in Mary's voice, "I'll drive you home."

Wordlessly Sherlock allowed himself to be led into the passenger seat of Mary's sensible car. Mary slid into the driving seat and turned on the radio, the sounds of smooth fm filled the car. Sherlock thought this journey would be anything but smooth.

He took a deep breath before speaking, "You."

"What do you think you know, Sherlock?"

Mary seemed very worried, her eyes were flicking between him and the road and her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. And yet she spoke to him like he was a child, making up stories that weren't true at all.

"You're going to hurt John," He stated and then corrected himself, "You're already hurting John."

She seemed to hear this, looking as though she felt some semblance and regret. Her eyes were now firmly on the road; when she spoke it was through gritted teeth, "What do you think you know, Sherlock?"

"You've got a new hairstyle, in a distinctly younger cut and style. Your clothes are new and revealing enough to entice in a new lover, but you've not worn these things for John in a long time, certainly not in the time I've known you. Things between you and him are obviously strained and you've only been married for two months, surely the chains of domesticity can't have dragged you both down this early on…"

"What do you think you know, Sherlock Holmes?" Mary repeated a third time, the irritation gone from her tone. In fact, she seemed calmed by his deductions which pointed clearly to the truth.

"You're cheating," Sherlock responded simply, raising an eyebrow as Mary let out a large breath of air.

Her words were weak, not commanding like before, "Don't tell John."

Sherlock pursed his lips in silent victory. He tried not to smile though, that sort of thing would usually be frowned upon in this kind of situation. The image of happy Watson family life had been shattered finally, and a new one was forming in his mind. John, leaving his wife, moving back into Baker Street, solving crimes together, a baby crying in the living room…

"The baby," Sherlock spat, almost stumbling over his words after forgetting such a vital part of the puzzle.

Mary looked confused, before light dawned in her eyes, "What about it?"

"Is it John's?" He continued to probe. Sherlock wished he didn't care so much about her answer, but if the baby wasn't John's they would transition so much easier back to Baker Street. But then again, John would hurt so much more. People do that, sentiment. If the baby was John's though, how would their lives work with a baby, him and a cheating wife?

The pregnant woman's face was pale, anxious. She sighed, "Of course it is, Sherlock. I'm not that cruel."

"You are the woman cheating on her husband after two months of marriage," Sherlock pointed out sardonically, trying to not allow his own sentiment cloud his judgement.

Mary's jaw set, "I have my reasons for that."

"Oh I'm sure you do," Sherlock mocked, feeling relief as Baker Street swung into view ahead. As soon as the car stopped moving he let himself out, not looking back at Mary as he left her car.

Mary however, shouted after him, "You're not going to tell him, Sherlock!"

Sherlock chose to ignore her words and slammed his front door behind him. He checked his phone as he ignored Mrs Hudson and strode up the stairs; two texts from John and. Dropping his coat in the doorway he sat in his chair, facing John's as he read.

 _You know, don't you? -JW_

 _Tell me it's not true. Please. -JW_

Sherlock was surprised John had been able to hide this from him until now. He could usually tell a cheater in under ten seconds and a cheat-ee in under 30, but Sherlock assumed his closeness to this case led to blind spots in his deductions. He felt as though he had let John down, having kept his distance in order to allow John a peaceful marriage but instead let a cheating wife go under the radar.

It was strange, Mary had now seemed the type to cheat any of the times he'd met her, Sherlock had even considered her a sort of friend. Sherlock was rarely ever blindsided and it was an uncomfortable feeling he did not like.

With a huff he finally opened Lestrade's message.

 _Have you worked out the case yet? I'm forgiving you for the wallet, for now. Greg._

Sherlock turned his nose up at the end of the message, was Lestrade playing him for a fool with that obviously fake name? Obviously some kind of joke because of what he'd pulled with the wallet, which incidentally he was only forgiving him for because of how stumped he was with the case. Sherlock rolled his eyes and deleted the text. The case was simple, too boring now he'd worked it out. He wasn't even sure it was worth trying to catch the killer, a waste of his mind. His mind that had been fooled by Mary Morstan, somehow.

He quickly typed a message to John, for once in his life not even feeling slight repulsion at the sentiment.

 _I'm sorry, John. –SH_

Sentiment had been creeping into his every decision ever since he'd returned to London, rapidly so since John Watson had gotten married. Sherlock was well aware that this increase in "feelings" was obviously linked to his previous flatmate, elementary cause and effect of course, which was slightly alarming. Sherlock had never once felt inclination to help anyone with their relationship problems, had never asked for help unless he really needed it. And yet he'd invited John on the case the night previous despite being able to solve it reletively easily alone and now he was considering the options for John now his marriage was obviously failing.

John, a man of noble virtues and morals, wouldn't stay with a wife who had strayed. John, with these morals and virtues, would also do anything to care for his own child. Even stay with a wife who didn't love him. Not that Sherlock could be sure that Mary didn't love John, sure she asked Sherlock not to tell John of her adultery which insinuates she wishes to stay with John. But she could want to stay with him for any number of reasons; his larger income, to have her child's father present in their life…

In all honesty, Sherlock had no idea whether or not John and his wife loved one another. He knew the chemistry behind love; knew the raised pulse, the dilated pupils. But he couldn't discern from a distance whether or not this stone would break them as a unit. No matter how much he wished it would.

Yes, he did like Mary. Yes, he helped out with the wedding and wished it sooner. But all Sherlock wanted was John, with him, in Baker Street, the way he knew things should be. The way he expected things to be when he returned.

Sherlock's phone buzzed again, bringing him out of his musings.

 _Fuck. For fucks sake. -JW_

And again.

 _What do I do? -JW_

Sherlock pondered this for a moment. He had always thought the blunt approach was better to any kind of relationship; tell a person the truth and allow them to work things out themselves. Yet, as he'd learned from Molly and the whole "Jim from IT" debacle, it wasn't always kinder to tell blunt truths. And with John Watson, Sherlock always found himself wanting to be kind.

 _Have you spoken to Mary about this? –SH_

Johns chair was in the living room. Somehow Sherlock had skirted over this fact when he'd returned to Baker street. Mrs Hudson did always have a 6th sense (not that Sherlock believed in that sort of thing) when it came to relationships, and even she thought John was moving back in.

 _No… no. I implied that she looked like she'd been out meeting somebody else earlier, when we got back to mine and she blew up at me, said I was making things up to to cover myself. Whatever that's supposed to mean. I can't even look at her. -JW_

 _Do you think I should speak to her? -JW_

 _Yes. It's better to be upfront. –SH_

 _Best not say it came from me though, she did tell me not to tell you –SH_

 _How could she think you wouldn't tell me this? We're best mates. -JW_

Sherlock sighed. Leaving his phone face down on the table he crossed to his bedroom, quickly changing from his suit into pyjamas and a blue silk dressing gown. He doubted he would be leaving the flat again tonight. When he returned and opened his phone to another message, from Mary this time.

 _You told him, didn't you? -M_

He couldn't discern her emotion from this message. The only downside to texting, Sherlock found, was the inability to tell if people were cross with him. Then again, he often lacked that in real-life conversation.

 _Yes. Well, he figured it out. –SH_

 _Has he spoken to you about it? –SH_

Mary's reply was instant.

 _No. He's sitting there drinking, checking his phone every five seconds for a text from you. Not even trying to hide it anymore. -M_

That was confusing. Why would John ever try to hide texts from him from his wife? Sherlock decided he should probably reply to John.

 _What are you going to do? –SH_

 _That's what I wanted you to tell me – JW_

This was getting ridiculous. Why was he having to sort out the Watson's family drama? All he wanted to know was if he was getting his flatmate back and if not, he could trawl for a case or perhaps even make use of that cocaine he had stuffed in the fireplace.

There was a long period of no texts from either Watson and Sherlock had gone though every message he'd received through his website, solving three from the sofa and dismissing the rest as boring. He was lying on the sofa, flinging the tiny plastic bag of white powder, when he heard the door to 221B open and slam closed again. Sherlock stowed the baggie in his dressing gown pocket and laid back, pretending he'd been napping this whole time.

The footsteps on the stairs were steady, undoubtedly John when his limp wasn't playing up, and came to a stop outside the flat. Finally, the door flung open and John walked in, pacing the room for a moment as Sherlock continued to feign sleep.

"You spoke to Mary, then," Sherlock deduced, with his eyes still shut.

John made an angry wheezing noise, "Yes. I ended it. Well I think I did."

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked, trying very hard to sound unaffected by this news.

"I told her it was completely ridiculous and unbelievable that she'd cheat on me two months into our relationship, and that I was leaving."

"The house or the relationship?"

"Both."

The two men looked at one another then, both working very hard not to convey the gravity of the situation. They didn't want to say it, but both were completely overjoyed at the obvious implication that John would be returning to Baker Street. It was like their reunion after the fall but without all the fighting and fiancé issues.

John was the first to break their locked eyes, walking to the fire and placing a hand on his chair.

"Mrs Hudson knew," He stated, revelling in the feeling of the soft fabric of the armchair beneath his fingers.

Sherlock tipped his head to one side, "Could have been wishful thinking," His voice suddenly grew indignant, "Even I didn't deduce this until I went for dinner; Mrs Hudson surely couldn't have…"

"Alright, alright. Calm down," John almost smiled at the normalcy of it all. Standing in 221B, talking to Sherlock; it was like letting out a breath of air he'd been holding for over two years.

Sherlock pouted, "That woman has no powers of deduction. She just likes to think she knows best."

"She usually does," John pointed out, his mind instantly recalling all the ideas Mrs Hudson had about the nature of his and Sherlock's relationship, and regretted his words.

Sherlock also seemed regretful; John expected that when he returned Sherlock would be victorious, dragging him off on cases before he even had the chance to catch his breath. But Sherlock just turned onto his side, draping his dressing gown over his curled up legs as he stared at the wall.

The detective knew John would have to go back to Mary eventually. This return to Baker Street had to be just a temporary reaction out of anger, soon enough John would think about the wider implications to his child and return to his Wife. Maybe he'd forgive her, maybe he wouldn't. But as much as Sherlock willed it to be, things were never going back to way things were before the fall. He was kidding himself.

John stood awkwardly in the living room, staring at the back of his best friend's head. Shaking his own head, John walked the well rehearsed steps to the fridge and pulled off the takeaway menu for the Thai place they liked. He returned to Sherlock's side.

"Pad Thai, or sweet and sour soup?" John asked, flicking through the menu as he sat down in his squishy armchair.

Sherlock's head perked up, "Sweet and sour soup, with spring rolls."

And in that moment, things seemed normal. Both men knew there were a lot of things to come they wouldn't like, things that would test their relationship and strength, but for this moment, things seemed right. They spent the evening eating (John wondered if this was the first proper meal Sherlock had had in the past two months; he hoped Mrs Hudson had managed to feed him a few times), and watching shit telly. Both had been behind on their Jeremy Kyle, Sherlock not bothering without John to shout his deductions at and Mary always called it trash TV, but luckily the two-year-old auto-record hadn't been cancelled. Soon enough Sherlock was deducing the secret sisters and rent-money-thieves with glee and John even managed a smile, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock to even bother watching the show.

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 **The boys are back! Send me a review with your thoughts, I was planning to have Mary's cheating to come in later but I realised as soon as Sherlock saw her he'd figure it out! But I hope that didn't come across too rushed, we're not done with Mary yet anyway.**

 **In addition, send me your favourite theory about TST because this show is completely taking over my life; help a girl out!**


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